


The earth laughs in flowers.

by Loracine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, POV Outsider, death occurs prior to fic, oh the feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 20:49:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6581596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loracine/pseuds/Loracine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title is a quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The earth laughs in flowers.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the [SPN Writing Challenge](http://spnwritingchallenge.tumblr.com/): April 2016 on Tumblr.  
> | loracine vs ~~themegalosaurus~~ [galaxystiel](http://galaxystiel.tumblr.com) |  
>  Prompt: You walked away. Not me.

Grandpa hadn't spoken much about his brother while he was alive, not until his own body was shutting down and the end was inevitably near. Mary Anne's father, youngest of Grandpa Sam's eight kids, thought his uncle was a hallucination, but she knew better. She had seen the pictures, old and worn with the passing of time. In the back of his closet he kept a battered shoebox. As far as she knew he hadn't opened it in years, but when a curious eight year old Mary Anne had found it one weekend in July he didn't hesitate to answer her questions. She had enjoyed watching his hazel eyes light up as he told her about the selfless big brother that, despite only being four years older than himself, had raised him pretty much out of the back of an old muscle car, always on the road.

Grandpa Sam had confided that the one thing he wanted when he left the nomadic lifestyle was a big family, an actual physical house. For as long as he could remember, he had yearned for more than the two-person little family unit he had known as a child. He got that with Grandma Jess. The Winchester clan, with a heaping helping of the Moores, filled the pews of the small church and spilled out into the aisles, toddlers quietly pushing little toy cars around on the tile flooring.

When he did finally speak of Dean, he told Mary Anne about a brave and selflessness boy who sacrificed pieces of himself, of his precious childhood, to make his little brother's world a better place, a safer place, as best he could. She envisioned a mini superhero, complete with leather jacket and freaky glowing green eyes, but couldn't imagine that same boy abandoning the little brother he'd so reliably cared for. She used to wonder what had actually happened to Dean, if he had died and that was why Grandma Jess was the only family member to have ever met him. Was there a little wooden cross somewhere out there marking his grave? The two of them seemed so close in his stories and Grandpa seemed so sad without him there.

Mary Anne suspected that the search for Dean Winchester did not truly begin in earnest until after Grandpa's last breath left him. To her, that was even sadder. Neither brother got to say goodbye, to reconcile. What she didn't expect was to watch a man that no one had been able to find, his cane taking up the slack where his knee kept buckling under his own weight, make his way to the podium. He had entered the church against Grandma's Jess' protestations, staring her down until she wilted and stepped aside. He didn't look old, kind of like the way Grandpa Sam had never seemed old to her. He was vibrant, green eyes alight, and the smattering of freckles on his cheeks stood a stark contrast to his wrinkly skin, paler than Grandpa's had ever been.

She could almost see the cocky youth underneath all of those years, like his soul never quite accepted his age. Dean also reminded Mary Anne of her brother, the way he had been just after his return from the 'sand box', four tours and a missing limb to show for it. Her oldest brother had a lot of interesting stories he was reluctant to tell, not wanting to subject her to his horrors. He was better now, but his strength had inspired her to become an RN at the VA. She'd seen a lot worse than her brother's episodes since then. She imagined Dean might have some of his own nightmares hidden away, what with the thousand yard stare he'd given the place as he stepped up to the podium. He had the haunted look of a combat veteran, a lifetime of blood clinging to him.

Dean cleared his throat, waving away the significantly younger looking man hovering near his elbow. "Hi. I know most of you don't know me. My name is Dean and Sam was the best little geek of a brother I could have asked for," he said into the mic, deep baritone sure and strong.

He stared out at the crowd, knowing a few of the faces and also knowing that none of them knew him, or wanted to. Sam had only taken a single photograph with him to Stanford and that had gone up in flames with everything else he owned when the first apartment he shared with Jess had burned to the ground leaving the two of them homeless and shell-shocked. Dean hadn't been there and Sam had refused to call him. Jess hadn't been Dean's biggest fan after that, like he should have somehow known Sasquatch was in trouble and come running all the way from the Carolinas. "He, uh," his voice cracked as a single tear rolled down his cheek. He wiped it away. "He was so completely good, you know, always wanting to know how he could help out someone else instead of himself. Even as a snot-nosed little kid. I guess that's why he chose family law. Our mom would have been so freaking proud of him. I am proud of him. Never wasn't. I know he didn't believe it for the longest time and that's on me."

Mary Anne heard several venomous comments in response to his admission. Dean didn't fit in with these white-bread suburbanites. He knew it, too. He looked the sort of rural rough her mother disdained for no tangible reason, from the simple cut of his hair to the worn leather of his boots. He looked like he worked with his hands all his life. Mary Anne saw family instead, the very person whose presence Grandpa Sam had been mourning for a long time, and hadn't told anyone until it was too late. She was hoping he would stick around long enough to talk to her.

Dean's companion swept the audience with his gaze in reproach. His eyes were an almost otherworldly cobalt blue and his unblinking stare was unnerving enough that quite a few people seemed suddenly very interested in their own shoes and she couldn't help her amused smirk. Served them right. She loved Grandma Jess, but the woman really knew how to carry a grudge. The Moores had been among the loudest voices in opposition to allowing Dean to attend his own brother's funeral.

"I don't know if he told you this, but our dad had a tough time of it after our mom died. Which meant, we didn't have it easy either. I practically raised the kid, thought of him as my own," Dean explained. The younger man's attention returned to his broad back and she watched the naked adoration blossom on his face, like he was witnessing the second coming. "We went without more times than I would care to admit to. I hope he never figured out just how much. I tried so hard to keep it from him. Even back then, he was worth it. Always was worth everything I had to give. And, I could tell you some stories about the little dude and bath-time." He broke off with a chuckle. "First he fought me every step of the way. I got more soap on me than him. Then I couldn't drag him out of the shower on account of how long it took to manage his girlish hair," he told them wistfully. "He was a regular genius, too. Never had a chance of landing a sports scholarship, though. First seventeen years the kid couldn't put one foot in front of the other without tripping over his own toes. More scraped knees than I could count. Sammy didn't know how to fail, though. That big brain. Could think his way out of just about anything. And his smile, like a little puppy. He could light up the whole room with those dimples and that stupidly long hair. He knew it too," he said with obvious love in his tone, like a parent bragging about his kid. "Got me every time. Never could say no," he admitted. He sniffed, tears flowing freely. He stopped for a moment to wipe his eyes, take a deep breath.

"The day he left for Stanford was both the best and worst day of my life. He was going on to better things, though. He tried once to get me to settle down with him, and I couldn't do it. I thought I would be cramping his style. And I, uh, I still had things that needed doing," he said, then stopped and sneaked a glance back at the man with the blue eyes and messy dark hair. "People I wouldn't leave behind. I know I disappointed him and I know he had to cut all ties. Wouldn't have worked any other way. It just hurt so goddamn much. For years I couldn't breathe, didn't want to go it alone after dad died, but I think I know now why he walked away even when I couldn't. I'm grateful, now, that he got his white picket fence. My baby boy grew up and made it on his own. I didn't have it in me to be mad at him, even when he left me choking on his dust in the process." Despite Dean's words, he almost sounded bitter about it and he broke off, looking back at the blue-eyed man like he needed to borrow some strength. When he turned red-rimmed eyes back to the grieving audience he opened his mouth, closed it, and made this choking noise in the back of his throat, like he'd seen something. His green gaze was fixed on Grandma Jess, so frail in the flowing black lace of her funeral gown. She looked pissed. Mary Anne knew it was an old anger he had somehow dredged up with his words, an old pain.

Dean blinked and hung his head over the podium. His companion stepped up and put a hand between those shaking shoulder blades, rubbing softly. The material of the stiff dress shirt crinkled when he hunched his shoulders even further and took a deep stuttering breath. The man leaned in close and murmured something too soft for the mic to pick up. Dean turned towards him, his mouth turning up just a bit at the corner's.

When he straightened and continued speaking, his voice had lost some of its strength. "I guess it all worked out in the end, though. He called me a little while ago, before he got real bad, and I wish to god I'da had the balls to answer. But, I was scared, and weak. I thought if we didn't talk I wouldn't have to face all the ways I failed him. Stupid, right? But, I had to give him up so you all could exist. If I kept him that would've been it for the Winchesters and Sammy, well, he deserved better than stale bar food and crappy motel rooms for the rest of his life. He got his legacy. You're sitting here in front of me. Just thinkin' there's a little speck of my Sammy walking around in each one of you. It makes sayin' goodbye this time just a little easier."

Dean coughed once as he was leaving the podium, his stride steadied by the cane on one side and the strange man at his other elbow. He didn't return to his seat, though. He took a detour, right up to the open coffin. Mary Anne caught the tail end of what he was saying as she approached, "So, I'll see you upstairs Sammy. I have it on good authority the place has been renovated and our spot's got this awesome view down on the Grand Canyon. Keep the lights on till I get there. Won't be long now, little brother." He removed a necklace from around his neck, the heavy brass charm ugly even though he seemed fond of it, and fingers lingering over its sharp edges as he placed it under one of Sam's cupped hands.

"Dean," she hesitantly asked.

He looked up, green eyes shimmering.

"He missed you," she finally told him.

He nodded.

Two months later Mary Anne saw that same blue-eyed man standing on her porch, hair wind-blown and hopelessly tangled. He looked devastated.

She opened the door, confused. "Can I help you," she asked.

He held out a set of antique keys, a matching pair to the antique muscle car in her driveway. "He, Dean, wanted you to have it. The car," he explained. "He said to tell you that family belongs with family and he thought you might like to get to know his Sammy."

She walked past him to get a better look at the black metal beast of a vehicle. "I don't understand," she said as she turned back around. She was met with the rustling of wings and a thick manila envelope on the porch railing.

In the trunk, in a concealed compartment beneath the false bottom, Mary Anne found a lifetime of history. There were crayon drawings so old the paper had yellowed, curled photos that had faded or had been singed, letters to her Grandpa dated back almost seventy years but never sent, and there was an old cigar box containing a collection of items even older, memories of a John Winchester who she hadn't even known existed. Her hands shook as she surveyed the treasures so carefully packed and hidden away.

Family. Isn't that what it was all about?


End file.
